


all of this should have been yours

by honey_wheeler



Series: the end of the world [1]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Dom/sub, M/M, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-05
Updated: 2011-08-05
Packaged: 2017-10-22 05:45:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/234531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik can't ask for what he needs and Charles goes outside his comfort zone for Erik’s sake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all of this should have been yours

**Author's Note:**

> Charles as top and how that might conceivably happen. Set during the movie, between finding Angel and Charles & Erik's last chess game. Link to original **[here.](http://honey-wheeler.livejournal.com/119119.html)**

Charles has lost count of the number of rounds he’s funded. They’ve seemed to make a great many friends, first at the club where they found Angel, and then at the bar across the street when they closed the club down. This is a decidedly less refined establishment. But then, the drinks are cheaper. Which is a good thing, since Erik has insisted on buying almost everyone a round.

“You’re in a merry mood tonight, my friend,” Charles says. He knows how rare such a thing is for Erik. It still feels like cheating, that he already knows almost the whole of Erik’s life. He can’t help the things he sees, he can’t un-know what he’s learned about a person. But sometimes he feels like he should feign ignorance, pretend at the same limitations and unfamiliarities that everyone else has.

“It’s a whole new world, Charles,” Erik says on a laugh. His clout on Charles’s shoulder is brisk enough that a third of Charles’s drink relocates itself to the carpet under their feet. “You seem quite cheery yourself.”

It’s true that Charles hasn’t been able to stop grinning for hours. It’s unaccountable, this feeling of triumph. He’s hardly unaccomplished in life; graduated with honors, respected by his peers, one of the youngest ever to become an Oxford professor. How is it that this one night – this one girl that he’s merely found and introduced to her own future – feels like the first time he’s ever really done something important? Tomorrow Angel will meet them to come back to Richmond and just like that, they’ll be at the beginning.

“Erik,” he starts, and then falters. He has no idea how to say what’s in his head right now, couldn’t begin to find the words big enough to encompass all he’s feeling. Erik looks at him curiously. “Erik, thank you.”

“For what?”

“For staying.”

The slightest smile plays on Erik’s lips, like he’s not sure how seriously to take this. Like Charles isn’t being quite what he expected. It’s a look Charles gets a lot. “You’re welcome.”

“I mean it, Erik.” There’s a strange tenor to his own voice that Charles doesn’t recognize. He doesn’t quite understand why it suddenly feels so important to make Erik see how very much he means it, but it does. There’s a gathering in his chest, some unfamiliar mass expanding and crowding into his lungs. “If you hadn’t stayed, I… it would…”

“Don’t get soppy on me, old man,” Erik says, but Charles can hear it there in his voice too, this…whatever it is. It’s rare that Charles is at a loss for words. Erik grins and cuffs a hand around the side of Charles’s neck, his thumb sliding across the sensitive spot just below Charles’s ear in something that feels more than accidental but falls short of an outright caress. For an instant, the focus of the world narrows down to that tiny patch of skin and Charles can hardly breathe from it all. Then someone jostles Erik, his hand falls away, and Charles comes back to himself again.

“Another round!” he shouts, and then there are drinks magically in their hands somehow and Charles is dizzy with possibility. Or maybe that’s the booze. Their glasses clink and Erik downs his in one swift movement, his throat vulnerable and exposed. Something about it makes Charles feel like his heart might break. He wants to band it with his hand, feel Erik’s pulse rush under his skin. To distract himself, he focuses on his own drink, empties half of it with a long gulp.

“Charles,” Erik says, like he’s trying to get Charles’s attention. Ridiculous, since Charles doesn’t think his attention has been off Erik since the second they met.

“Erik,” he answers.

“Did you ever notice that the bridge is always the best part of every song?” Erik asks, as if it’s the most pressing question he’s ever considered. Charles exhales on a laugh.

“I did not.”

“It really is. Pay attention next time.” Erik starts humming a surprisingly tuneful rendition of Where the Boys Are, a song that Charles never would have imagined he knew.

“Remember when I said I knew everything about you?” Charles asks.

Erik nods. Sings _in a crowd of ba ba dum people, da da dum valentine._

“I think I was entirely wrong about that.”

Erik laughs, and he must really be well on his way to drunk, because he pulls Charles into an impromptu and inexpert waltz, an arm around his waist, fingers looped around Charles’s wrist, their bodies pressed together knees to shoulder for a few moments as Erik swings them in a wide arc. A sweet ache curls through Charles’s stomach, even after Erik has released him and gestured to the bartender for another drink.

“So tell me, Charles,” Erik says. “Are you always Charles?”

“Come again?”

“Does no one ever call you Chuck or Charlie?”

Charles grimaces. “No, thankfully.”

“Not even Raven?”

“She wouldn’t dare,” Charles says. Erik appraises him, eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

“Maybe I should start a fashion,” he says.

“ _You_ wouldn’t dare,” Charles counters, holding a warning finger up that Erik ignores.

“You don’t scare me.” Erik leans in, pinning Charles with his stare as he slowly and deliberately says, “ _Charlie_.” Then he grins, all white teeth and devilry, and oh, Charles is in trouble.

“Should have left you to the submarine,” he sighs.

*****

“Could’ve sworn there was a hole at the bottom of this thing when I put it on.”

The lump of Erik’s head appears first beneath the fabric at the left armpit of his jumper, then somewhere around the stomach, the bed jostling with his movements. Charles tosses the room key onto the dresser and watches, interested. Based on how long it took Erik to perform the simple task of shrugging off his jacket a moment ago, this ought to be good for several minutes of diversion. By all rights, Charles should be equally drunk; he certainly hadn’t stinted on drinks. Yet somehow, Erik absorbed all the drunkenness, leaving Charles barely compromised. At least Erik’s providing entertainment to make up for it. “Charles,” Erik calls plaintively. “Charles, my jumper is broken. It had a hem but now it doesn’t.”

"I think it’s not the hem that’s gone but rather your sobriety," Charles can’t resist pointing out.

“My what?” The wool-covered lump that is Erik’s head turns from side to side then looks up at the ceiling.

“You’re drunk, Erik.”

" 'm not," Erik mutters.

"Yes, because sober people frequently get lost in their clothing," Charles notes drily.

"Why aren't you drunk, then? That wasn't club soda in your glass." Erik’s voice is unmistakably testy, if muffled.

"Just better at handling my liquor, I suppose,” Charles shrugs, not that Erik can see it. “Erik, you're trying to put your head through the sleeve."

"A Brit out-drinking a German," Erik says, backtracking and resuming his search for the hem. "That'll be the day."

"It appears that day has come,” Charles tells him. At this rate, it’ll be time to leave before he finally manages to get it off and he’ll just have to turn around and get dressed again.

"Horseshit. I demand a recount," Erik retorts. Charles watches him grappling uselessly with his jumper for another moment before finally taking pity on him.

“Oh good grief, here." Charles tugs at the jumper. Erik raises his arms obediently, like a child. The fabric clears his head, leaving his hair mussed and crackling with static.

"Oh.” He looks up at Charles, blinking in the light. “Hello there."

"Hello," Charles says. Erik grins at him dumbly, then collapses backwards onto his bed like a marionette with cut strings. Aspirin is probably in order. Charles folds the jumper neatly – legacy of a tidy childhood that he still can’t quite shake, no matter how much he’s done in his life to scandalize his patrician mother since – and ducks into the bathroom to fetch his dop kit and a glass of water.

“How’d you learn to drink so well anyway?” Erik levers himself up on his elbows to watch as Charles shakes two aspirin out onto his palm. Without being asked, he opens his mouth for Charles to tip them in. “Was Raven a bad influence?” he says around the pills.

“Quite the opposite, I’m afraid. I encouraged her rebelliousness, much to my current dismay. Drink.” A hand at the nape of Erik’s neck encourages him to drink and he trusts it implicitly, allowing Charles to support much of his weight as he drinks. He collapses back onto the bed when he’s drained the glass and points a waggling finger at Charles.

“You haven’t answered the question yet.” Charles sighs. Single-minded, this one is.

“Absentee parents and an unlocked liquor cabinet.”

“Is that the short version?”

“Yes.” To say the least. Charles moves to the head of the bed and flips the covers down as much as he can with Erik’s prone form in the way. He intends his brisk manner to be discouraging and implacable on the subject, but Erik just smiles and closes his eyes, obviously unchastened.

“I’d love to hear the long version some day. Remind me to ask you when I’m sober.”

“Fat chance. Up you go.” Charles hooks his hands under Erik’s armpits and awkwardly heaves him towards the headboard. Erik, it must be said, does little to help.

"Bed already?" he asks, yawning even as his head hits the pillow. He watches through slitted eyes as Charles moves to the foot of the bed and prizes his shoes from his feet, dropping them in front of the dresser.

"Did you have something else in mind?" Charles asks.

"Dunno," Erik mumbles. "Maybe you could let me fuck you." Oh. Well then. Charles has never had much of a poker face, and he knows that’s never been truer than this very moment. He wrestles the sheets out from under Erik’s legs and covers him, keeping his hands busy so he doesn’t look as flustered as he feels.

"That's probably quite ill-advised at the moment," Charles says when he feels he can speak normally. It’s just drunken silliness. Erik doesn’t mean it. He might not even be all that aware of who Charles is. Then Erik snakes one hand free and catches Charles’s wrist, stopping him in his tracks physically this time instead of just figuratively.

"You might like it, Charles," Erik says, his voice low and sandpaper rough, and oh, now that’s not fair, Charles thinks. Not fair in the slightest. His pulse is like a bird trapped under his skin, fluttery and panicking for escape.

"I don't think my enjoyment is what’s in question," he admits.

"Too noble to take advantage?" Erik guesses. He has to know he’s hit the mark from the look on Charles face. His laugh is warm, sleepy. Affectionate. "Ah Charles. Charlie Charlie Charlie. You're too good for this world. "

"Is that what my problem is?"

“Mmm,” Erik says on another yawn, eyes slipping completely closed. “It’s both your most endearing and your most aggravating quality.” His hand loosens and slips from Charles’s wrist, falling back to the mattress bonelessly. The air feels cold in comparison.

“Indeed.” But Erik is already asleep and doesn’t hear. Charles steps back from the bed, suddenly feeling at a loss. There’s little to see out the window; a deserted parking lot lit yellow from the streetlamps, a distant highway with cars like ants. The vast reach of the Atlantic, dark but for the barest hint of light on the horizon. Little to see, but Charles stands at the window for a long time anyway, staring out at the breaking morning until his brain feels quiet enough to allow him sleep.

*****

It's the crackle of the radio that wakes Charles, a sibilant hiss punctuated by snatches of some hopelessly old-fashioned torch song. Seems the 60s are late to arrive to rural Maryland or Delaware or wherever the hell they are now. He becomes dimly aware of the crick in his neck, the prickle of pins in his right leg where it's curled beneath him. Moira's car is many things, but a good bed it's not.

"Good morning," Erik says.

"Is that what this is?" Charles asks, voice rusty with disuse. "Morning?”

"In the barest sense of the word, yes," Erik answers.

The upholstery sticks to the exposed skin at the small of his back as Charles pushes himself upright. He looks at his watch. Not yet two am. And given their late start, they’ve still got a ways to go. This will teach them to carouse before a long car trip, he supposes. “You’re sure you don’t need to sleep? I’d rather you didn’t drive us off a cliff.”

Erik shrugs. "I can probably catch us."

"Probably," Charles says on an undignified snort. "Reassuring. Do turn off that infernal hissing.”

Erik raises one finger from the steering wheel, traces a comma in the air. The radio knob twists itself off and silence settles inside the car.

“You should have woken me,” Charles says. “I could have at least given you company.”

“You looked far too adorable to disturb,” Erik says. Charles sucks in a breath swiftly enough to make himself choke. This easy way Erik has of flirting unnerves him. Not that Charles is some wet-behind-the-ears virgin, but he’s no lothario either, and he’s not used to dealing with someone so sexually charged.

“Ah, you’re blushing,” Erik laughs. “I didn’t expect you’d have such delicate sensibilities, Charles. However did you manage to watch all those strippers without dissolving into nervous giggles?”

“That was different,” Charles mutters, and so help him, if Erik asks him to explain why…

“So do I owe you an apology for last night?” Erik asks. Charles feels his heart stutter to a halt before resuming at a doubled pace.

“Last night…” Charles hedges, but Erik is having none of it.

“Yes, Charles, last night. I’m sure you remember it, though parts are a bit hazy for me,” he says impatiently. “Did I do anything I need to apologize for?”

Charles hesitates. He searches for a way to answer delicately, without being vulgar about it. “It was just meaningless talk, Erik. You have nothing to worry about. You were drunk, it’s understandable that you don’t remember-”

“No, I remember wanting to fuck you,” Erik says and there Charles goes choking on his own breath, again. “I just don’t remember if I did anything about it.” Charles gulps like a landed fish for a few moments, trying desperately to compose himself, but honestly, this _conversation_.

“No, you did not do anything about it,” Charles finally says.

“Is that why you’re so flustered now?” Erik asks. “Because I didn’t?” The question is mild, teasing. But Charles can feel the shimmer of sincerity behind it and it makes him nervous. He’s not used to being caught off-guard like this.

“Erik, you know that I… That is, we… What’s between us is-“

“Oh my god,” an exasperated voice interrupts. “I can hear you, you know.” Jesus, Charles had almost forgotten Angel was in the backseat. He’d certainly thought she was still asleep. “ _And_ I’m technically a minor, which makes this even more inappropriate.”

“Yes, quite right, Angel, quite right,” Charles says. “Please excuse us, we didn’t…please, go back to sleep. We should be there shortly. You can get settled in and-”

“You’re babbling, Charles,” Erik says. The smile on his face is impossibly smug. It’s infuriating. So infuriating that Charles shouldn’t still feel this nervous, which makes it all the more infuriating.

“Eyes on the road,” is all he can offer in return.

*****

They don’t all go as well as Angel, or Darwin after her. Maybe Charles and Erik had gotten overconfident. It seems so logical to both of them, after all, so sensible. So unquestionably right. Charles had known in some part of his brain that some of the mutants they would talk to might be frightened, suspicious, unwilling. But it’s hard to accept that as a reality when Charles believes so strongly in what he’s putting together.

Some of them say no. Some of them never show after they agree to come. But this one…this one looks at them like they’re freaks.

It had started out so promisingly. “So,” Erik had said when they arrived on the campus, rubbing his hands together briskly. “Who’s next for our mutant army?”

“We’re gathering students, Erik,” Charles reminded him, “not amassing an armed force.” Erik had flicked one hand dismissively in Charles’s direction.

“You call it what you want, I’ll call it what I want.” His cheer hadn’t lasted, though. They’d found her hurrying along a deserted sidewalk near the student union, hauling a satchel stuffed full with books and hiding from everyone under the lank curtain of her hair.

“Need a little help?” Erik had quipped even as he raised her bag off her shoulder, leaving it dangling from its metal buckle in front of her. The look she’d given him wasn’t just nervous or uncertain. It was frightened. Revolted. Filled with hate. Charles felt it like a hundred needles in his mind. Her bag dropped to the ground, unnoticed. Charles could practically see the light that had kindled in Erik these last few days dimming, snuffed out and replaced by a cold anger. He’d barely noticed the girl snatching up her satchel and running away.

Now Erik sits stiffly, wordlessly, his hands clenched so tightly about the steering wheel that his knuckles have gone bone white. His steering is clipped and jerky. Every time he turns a corner or changes lanes, the car lurches and the tires squeal in protest. Charles doesn’t dare say anything about it. Even if he wanted to, he might not be able; dampening the roiling rage surrounding Erik that threatens to give Charles a headache is taking a good bit of his concentration at the moment. Already he feels Erik’s walls coming up, misgivings and mistrust flooding back to fill the void left after their encounter with the girl crushed the hope Erik had barely allowed himself to entertain. Charles could kick himself. He should have known. How could he not have known?

When they arrive back in Richmond, Erik is up and out of the car before Charles can even open his door. Charles follows him inside, quietly trails him into his room. His presence unasked for, and most likely unwelcome, but there are some things Charles just can’t leave alone for long. He stands inside the door silently, watching.

“Something you’d like to say?” Erik asks, and his voice is so calm and emotionless that it sends a prickle up Charles’s spine.

“It was just one person, Erik,” he says. Erik turns then, and Charles feels the blast of his scorn battering his mind.

“One person?” Erik practically spits, a cruel laugh distorting his voice. “No, Charles, it was all of them. Everyone who hates and fears us. But this time it was one of our own.”

“Erik,” he says, soothing, pleading. “There are bound to be missteps. This is an imprecise process.”

“Imprecise,” Erik says. “That’s one way of putting it.” Charles can feel the years of alienation Erik’s been through, the isolation and sheer otherness he felt for so long. Up until Charles jumped in the water and promised him belonging and acceptance, a promise he’s somehow managed to renege upon when they've barely even started.

“I’m truly sorry, Erik.” Charles knows the words are inadequate, but he doesn’t know what else to say. A telepath who doesn’t know the right thing to say. He could almost laugh at himself. Why this makes him feel so undone, why Erik’s upset should affect him so, he doesn’t quite understand. He reaches out to catch Erik’s wrist, runs his thumb deliberately over the tattoo on the underside of Erik’s forearm. “I hadn’t thought about how something like this might affect you.” For the tiniest second, Erik looks so stricken that Charles’s heart gives a sympathetic throb, but then he wrenches away, Charles’s fingernails leaving dull red tracks on his skin.

“What do I matter anyhow?” Erik asks, the calm in his voice layered over cynicism. “I’m just another freak.” Charles can feel the change in the air, can see how it almost shimmers around Erik just before the bedside alarm clock explodes. One second it’s sitting there, innocently ticking away on the nightstand; the next second it’s a showering collection of gears and parts.

“Erik, please-” Charles’s watch is the next casualty; it wrenches itself from his wrist with a snapping sound and folds in on itself in mid-air. The mirror is next, its glass spiderwebbing under the pressure from its suddenly twisted frame, then a light fixture, even a doorknob crumpling as if crushed by an unseen hand.

“Erik!”

“Will you run now too, Charles?” Erik asks, his eyes deadly cold, even though Charles can feel the fire of his anger, his despair. “Will you run scared now that I’m not your tame little lapdog?” Charles stiffens at that.

“If you think that of me, you haven’t paid much attention,” he says, stung.

Erik gives a sharp bark of a laugh. “Oh, are those your fighting words? If that’s the best you’ve got we’re all doomed.”

“Enough.”

“Might as well line up to be executed now.”

“ _Erik_ , that’s _enough_.” Charles only means to say it, but somehow it translates itself mentally as well, pushing outward and hitting Erik with enough force to make him stagger and raise one hand to his temple. Shock is written plain on his face. Charles presses his advantage, rushing forward and carrying Erik backwards with the momentum, the air leaving Erik’s lungs on a grunt when his back collides with the wall. Charles loops the points of Erik’s collar around his knuckles and pulls.

“Enough,” he says again, but quietly this time. Erik stares at him, stunned. Their faces are so close that his eyes flick from right to left, looking first in one eye, then the other. Then they drop to Charles’s mouth, his tongue darts out to trace a nervous path along his lower lip, and a wave of pure heat hits Charles like a freight train. Now it’s Charles’s turn to be stunned. The desire is almost all-encompassing, but under it is a tangled skein of emotions. Longing, anger, guilt. A desire to be controlled. Images unspool in Charles’s mind, a flipbook of the atrocities Shaw put Erik through, the degradations that brought about unwilling desires and involuntary responses, followed by guilt and shame. And now the fresh misery that comes with Charles knowing every bit of it.

Charles lets go of Erik’s collar like it’s on fire. He takes an involuntary step back, overwhelmed, buried by the weight of so much emotion. The sound of their breathing fills the room.

“I’d like you to leave now.” Erik’s voice is unsettlingly quiet, its calm belied by the turmoil Charles can still sense in his mind.

“Erik-“

“Goodnight, Charles.” There’s the ring of finality in it. It’s cold and foreign. A first from this person Charles felt like he’d known forever from the second they met. It leaves a dull ache at the back of his throat. Charles turns and leaves without another word.

*****

He wakes with a splitting headache, the aftereffect, he assumes, of that little stunt he’d pulled with Erik, the blast of mental force that came from nowhere. It’s something Charles has never done before, and with good reason, it would seem, since it’s left his brain feeling like laundry beaten on a rock. Of course, the lack of sleep probably didn’t help either. All night he’d tossed restlessly, kicking his feet out from under the sheets and trying desperately to get comfortable enough to fall asleep and forget the churn of his thoughts, the churn of Erik’s that he’d so recently felt by proxy. But even when he did fall asleep he awoke with a jerk, the echo of past trauma reverberating in his mind. Charles understands why Erik wants to kill Shaw. He kind of wants to kill him himself now.

It’s late morning, far later than Charles normally rises. Usually he likes to get a jump on the day, get things accomplished before anyone else is up and about. Today he’ll be lucky if he accomplishes dressing himself without assistance.

They’re all there at breakfast when he straggles down the hall to the conference room that’s been hastily made into a dining room of sorts for them – two rectangular tables pushed together, mismatched office chairs grouped around them, a dining cart that gets wheeled in at every meal. The conditions are a bit Spartan, there’s no denying. But then beggars can’t be choosers. Especially when they’re still technically in custody.

“Good morning,” he says, wincing at the volume of his own voice. God, it’s like a hangover without the fun part of earning it. Only Armando returns his greeting. Raven and Angel are chattering like magpies, sharing stories and secrets, leaning their heads together and giggling. They’ve no time for an old man like Charles. Erik…well Erik might as well be a mannequin for how still he is. The bright blush of Erik’s shame still lingering in his mind from the night before, Charles clasps a hand on Erik’s shoulder and gives him a sympathetic squeeze. “Erik.”

The speed with which Erik stands is alarming. He shakes Charles’s hands off and gathers his still-full plate and silverware. The hostility Charles feels from him is overwhelming and for a moment he’s at a loss.

“You haven’t even finished your food,” he protests weakly. Erik drops his plate with a clatter on the dining cart, turns to sweep his gaze over the table while carefully avoiding Charles’s eyes.

“Forgive me, but I’ve had enough prattle for one morning,” he says with casual incivility. The door is swinging open even before he reaches it, and he’s out and into the corridor before Charles has any idea what to say. The girls break into nervous giggles.

“Geez. If he’d been like that when we met, I never would have come with you.” Angel makes a face. Then, for good measure, “and I wouldn’t have given him a private dance no matter how much he fucking paid.”

“If you’ll excuse me,” Charles says.

Erik is almost to his room by the time Charles catches up with him, having to jog to keep up with Erik’s long strides. Erik must hear him but he doesn’t turn, doesn’t acknowledge Charles in any way. It stings more than Charles would like to admit. Finally he gets a hand inside Erik’s elbow.

“Erik, a word,” he says, a bit out of breath. To his shock, Erik strikes his hand away, forcefully enough that it hurts a bit. Charles steps back, cradling his hand protectively. He tentatively reaches out, trying to touch Erik’s mind, but it’s like a briar patch, a thorny unwelcoming bramble. “I know you’re embarrassed about last night but-”

“Spare me your patronization,” Erik snaps. “I’m not one of your little projects.” Charles recoils another step, the anger and hostility almost palpable between them.

“No, of course not-”

“If we’re done here?” Erik interrupts. “I’ve things to take care of before we jaunt off on our little hunt again, after all.” He still hasn’t looked at Charles, not even out of the corner of his eye, and that more than anything defeats Charles.

“Yes, of course,” Charles mumbles. “Our flight is at eleven.”

But Erik isn’t even listening anymore. The door practically slams in Charles’s face, leaving him alone in the hallway. More alone than ever. He shakes his head, chides himself as he walks slowly to his own room. It’s ridiculous, this feeling he has, like he just lost his best friend. Ridiculous, but there it is all the same.

*****

They don’t speak to each other the entire trip. Not on the way to the airport, not on the flight, not on the drive out to the prison or the entire way back. Alex isn’t the type who would notice – he seems indisposed to conversation himself at the moment – but Charles notices. He can’t help but fill in the conversation they might be having if things hadn’t gone so wrong. _Might I borrow your book, Erik? Certainly, Charles, and might I say you’re looking dapper today, I hope you don’t mind if I flirt shamelessly. Not at all, Erik, not at all._

Charles puts a hand to his temple and massages it. He could really use a drink.

Raven and the others are there to greet Alex when they get back that night, and Charles quite willingly foists him off on them, glad at least that there’s one less thing for him to worry about, even though under normal circumstances he would see that Alex got settled in himself. Instead he’s free to retreat to his room and nurse his lingering headache.

He wakes sometime in the night, still leaning against the headboard in the same way he’d sat down when he came in. He hadn’t meant to sleep. The headache is gone, replaced now by grogginess. Stiffly, he swivels his legs down to the floor, bracing his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. That drink seems like an even better idea right about now. In fact, it seems like the best idea he’s had in a long time.

The lounge is almost entirely dark, illuminated only by the changing lights of the jukebox. Still, Charles realizes he’s not alone in the room instantly. Maybe it’s some hyper-acute awareness of Erik, but the second Charles walks in the door, he can tell Erik is there in the dark. He freezes entirely.

“Come to psychoanalyze me?” Erik asks.

“Actually, I’m here to psychoanalyze some bourbon,” Charles can’t help shooting back. “Your presence was unforeseen.” His bite seems to reach Erik in a way his compassion has not, and Erik smiles, just barely. He nudges the bottle on the table in front of him with his foot. Wordlessly, Charles fills a glass with ice at the wet bar, moving to the empty chair next to Erik’s. He sits, glass held out expectantly. It takes a few moments, but finally Erik leans forward to pick up the bottle and pour Charles a few fingers worth.

“Don’t be stingy,” Charles remonstrates. Erik cocks an eyebrow, tips the bottle again. They drink without speaking. In the silence, Charles can hear Erik swallow, can hear the small, gravelly noise he makes at the burn of the alcohol. The tension between them is almost unbearable.

“So will we just go on like this forever, never speaking?” he finally says. Erik jerks at the sound of his voice. He leans forward to set his glass on the table, remaining hunched over, elbows on his knees, hands laced together. “I want to help you, Erik.” Instantly Erik is on his feet, and Charles reflexively follows, drink forgotten on the table as he stands at Erik's shoulder, looks at his shadowy face. Cautiously, knowing it could backfire, he reaches for Erik’s elbow again. Erik stiffens.

“I cannot bear your kindness, Charles.” Erik’s voice is raw, defenseless. The sharp press of his desperation is almost agony. Without thinking, Charles reaches out, touches his mind, and is left gasping at his anguish, his struggle against what he wants. His intense desire to have the choice taken away from him. Finally Charles understands. This is what Erik can’t be brave enough to ask for. Erik looks at him with miserable eyes and Charles knows that his own choice has been already been taken away. How could there be a choice? He curls a hand under Erik’s chin, presses his thumb to the valley below his bottom lip, Erik’s lips parting under the force of his touch.

“I won’t hurt you,” Charles says. “Not the way you want.” Erik doesn’t respond. Charles can feel the confused jumble of his emotions taking an almost physical form between them, a wounded animal crouched in defense, unsure if it should fight or flee. Erik is working so hard to fight what he needs. To fight himself. No longer. Not when Charles can help. _Sit._ A weaker person would buckle under the force of Charles’s mind. Erik merely sways, then sinks slowly back into his chair.

Charles drops back into his own chair. Erik would appear to be waiting patiently to anyone else, but Charles can feel his desperation, humming just under the surface of his skin.

“Undo your belt,” he says. Again, Erik jerks at his voice, but this time the reaction is different. This time he shudders, his eyes almost rolling back into his head. Eyes closed, he obeys Charles, the buckle flipping and pulling itself from his belt loops. The leather arms of the chair give under his fingers when he tightens them, taking a deep breath. Forgotten, the belt drops to the floor.

“Zipper.” Erik’s hands still don’t move, but the metal rasp of the zipper is loud in the hush of the room. Charles hesitates – this is entirely out of his comfort zone and leagues beyond any experiences he’s ever had. But he pushes that aside. He can’t quite say the words, but he can use images. Even if he weren’t telepathic, he’d know the exact instant they hit Erik by the sharp intake of breath, the way his toes curl visibly in his socks. Shaking, Erik dips his hand into his open fly, beneath his pants, his body jerking at the touch of his own hand. Charles has to take a deep breath himself, heat pooling in his abdomen.

Erik’s breathing is harsh. He works his hand over himself, knees falling open wider against the arms of his chair. _Faster,_ Charles tells him, without necessarily intending too, but Christ, this is having far more of an effect on him than he expected. Erik groans, an edge of desperation in the sound, and increases the speed of his hand. He’s slumped down in the chair now, head against the back, knees so far apart that one is bumping against Charles’s thigh. His eyes flutter open, pinning Charles with their intensity. His mind is frantic, pleading, and Charles understands what he needs.

“Now,” he says out loud, and it’s enough. Erik gives a choked, shuddering moan, his feet coming up off the floor for a moment as he seems to fold in on himself. Charles feels an answering tug in his stomach and has to take a steadying breath. They both sit for a long time, until Erik stops shaking, until both of their breathing returns to normal and then a little longer.

Charles’s muscles protest when he stands, stiff from the tension, from his involuntary response to watching Erik’s pleasure. He stands in front of Erik, silent and expectant. Erik doesn’t even wait for an instruction before he stands, so close that Charles can feel the heat emanating from his body, can smell the musk of his aftershave. It makes him dizzy for a moment and he almost has to close his eyes.

“Your room or mine?” he says at length. A fresh wave of Erik’s desire hits Charles. There’s an undeniable sense of yielding in it, a complete submission to whatever Charles wants. Charles knows he could make Erik do anything, anything at all. He’s careful to shield from Erik how very much that frightens him.

“Yours it is,” he says.

It’s much later when they finally sleep. At least Erik does. Charles can’t sleep yet. There’s too much in his head. Too much he wants to prolong before another day comes, bringing unexpected changes with it.

Erik is sprawled on his stomach, one foot dangling off the side of the bed. Charles has a feeling he usually sleeps in a much more contained state, probably even a semi-alert one. But now he lies bonelessly on the mattress, a soft snore issuing from his slack mouth. It’s the most defenseless Charles has ever seen him. He lays one hand on the sweep of Erik’s back. Erik always seems so large and formidable; it’s a surprise to see him laid bare and realize how slight he is, how his ribs narrow into his waist, how his spine traces an almost delicate line between the tapering muscles of his back. He seems almost breakable.

It’s only because Erik is so deeply asleep that Charles allows himself to rest his cheek where his hand had been. It’s a softness he knows he can’t allow himself any other time, but for now he can’t deny himself this one small indulgence. His head rises and falls with Erik’s breathing as he waits for the dawn.

 

******  
******

 

It’s like it never happened.

It’s the sun that wakes Erik, rather than any alarm. A slice of it manages to carve through the drapes and land on his face at some indeterminate hour of the morning. He looks for the clock on the bedside table to check the hour, but it’s gone. Dimly, he remembers destroying it the other day, ruthlessly dismantling it into a hundred pieces. Now not even a single gear is left to attest to its former existence. Charles is equally gone, so thoroughly erased from the room – no clothing, not even a trace of rumpled sheets on the other side of the bed – that Erik wonders if he’s going mad.

He pushes himself to a sitting position and digs the heels of his palms into his eyes, hard, until a dull paisley swims behind his eyelids. What he’d like is to hide in this room all day – hell, part of him would like to run away and never come back – but he knows he has to come out sometime. He swings his feet to the floor and gropes for his clothes, deciding that what was good enough to wear yesterday is good enough to wear again for the moment.

They’re all having breakfast when he walks into the dining room, so it can’t be especially late. Alex is hunched and suspicious over his plate, Darwin making soothing conversation, trying to draw them all out. Raven looks half-asleep. Hank just looks timid. It’s what Erik likes least about him.

“Erik, good morning,” Charles says. Erik searches his face for something, expecting awkwardness or discomfort or, even worse, kindness, but finds nothing. Charles is a polite blank. “Join us.”

Erik stands in the doorway, caught off-guard. The defenses he’d been preparing escape him on a hiss of breath, and he feels not unlike a deflating balloon. Raven gives him a funny look.

“You waiting for an engraved invitation?” she asks. Numbly, he moves to the table and sits at an empty place.

“We’ve another to collect today,” Charles is saying, “so you five will be on your own.”

“Boy or girl?” Raven asks, and Charles gives her a chiding look for focusing on what he clearly thinks is irrelevant.

“Male.”

“Ugh, another one,” she sighs. “We’re getting really outnumbered here.”

“Raven, I should think you’d have more important things to consider.”

“And I,” she retorts, “should think you’d realize that _is_ important.”

“Honestly, I don’t know when you became so difficult,” Charles says with a disappointed shake of his head. Raven rolls her eyes, makes a blah blah blah hand gesture at Angel, who smirks. Erik watches them, feeling dazed. Did he actually make everything up? How is this what’s going on given what he thought had happened last night? There’s a plate of food in front of him that Erik doesn’t remember seeing anyone set down. He stares down at it: bacon and two eggs, sunny-side-up. It feels like the plate is staring right back at him. He wonders if it feels as wretched as he somehow does.

*****

It’s the mark that convinces him he’s not mad. He’s retreated to the relative safety of his room. There, at least, there are signs that _something_ has been going on – the missing clock, the broken mirror, the dented and battered doorknob. Erik strips off his shirt and drops it on the floor as he walks into the bathroom. He supposes he should shave.

Using a razor was one of the first ways he’d honed his powers – what better stakes to ensure performance than a sliced carotid, after all – and now he leans against the sink with both hands while the razor swipes paths through the shaving cream on his cheeks. He’s just finished up, wiping the traces of white from his skin with a washcloth, when he sees the mark. It’s just below the hinge of his jaw, a dashed crescent left by the pressure of Charles’s teeth. He remembers the feel of it, the dull-edged tearing that brought forth the smallest bit of blood, caked and scabbed now under Erik’s suddenly trembling fingers. The razor drops with a clatter, forgotten in the face of this bit of proof, this physical remembrance of everything they did. Of everything Charles did to him. Erik’s hands fall to curl around the edge of the sink hard enough to make his knuckles ache. Ache to match the rest of him.

“We’ve got a cab at half past to take us to the airport,” Charles says at the bathroom door. Erik hadn’t seen him come in, hadn’t even heard the door, and now he’s helpless to stop the wave of longing that surges in him at the sight of Charles in the mirror over his shoulder. Charles jerks under its force, eyes closing for a moment. Erik knows it’s pathetic, how he’s projecting his endless need like ticker tape, but he’s powerless to stop it. He might even be beyond caring. Charles opens his eyes and meets Erik’s in the mirror. He reaches behind him and locks the door of Erik’s room, the click as loud as a gunshot.

“We don’t have long,” he says, and the relief turns Erik’s knees to water, so that now he’s gripping the edge of the sink just to stay upright.

“Please,” he gasps, though what he’s asking for, he doesn’t truly know.

Charles must know, though, because suddenly Erik feels his knees buckling without his consent. His hands automatically settle on Charles’s waist, thumbs framing Charles’s belt buckle. He looks up past the buckle, up to Charles’s face, and Erik’s entire body tenses with wanting, the twinge of shame easily smoothed over with only the slightest mental effort on Charles’s part.

"Undo it,” he tells Erik.

Erik's barely felt for the metal with his mind when Charles cuts across his thoughts. _By hand._ Erik knows that Charles could stop him from using his power even if he tried; the threat of it hangs in the air between them, all the more powerful for having been unspoken. There's a tremor in Erik's hand as he obeys, a shiver that grows until it translates through his whole body. He has to use both hands to slide the leather from the buckle.

 _The zipper,_ Charles tells him, and it's all Erik can do to keep breathing somehow. He fumbles for the metal tab, losing his focus when he hears the guttural sound that seems wrenched from Charles’s throat at the brush of Erik’s suddenly clumsy hands. Want curls through him, unruly and desperate, and all he can think is that he needs to touch, to get at Charles’s hot skin.

"No," Charles says harshly, forestalling the motion that Erik hadn't even realized his hands were making. _Not unless I say._ "The zipper, Erik. Now." It takes effort, but Erik obeys, returning to the zipper tab and easing it down with more gentleness than he feels. Charles is watching him with predatory intensity. Erik can barely hold his gaze. The fraction of him that always wants to run and hide is overruled by everything else.

It isn't so much words that form in Erik's mind as an image. He sees himself freeing Charles from his briefs, taking him in his mouth. It's vivid enough to send a bolt of heat shooting through his veins, his groan answered seconds later by a groan of Charles's own when Erik mimics the image and slides his lips around Charles's erection.

Erik tastes the salt of his skin, feels him filling his mouth and throat. The back of his head bumps the wall when Charles surges forward, splays his hands against the wall above Erik and ducks his head, the expression on his face close to beatific.

"Don't stop," Charles pants. _Don't. Stop._ As if there was any danger of that. Erik palms the bones of Charles's hips, he thumbs the hairless skin at the crease of his thighs where the blood runs close to the surface, a small unasked-for disobedience that Charles nonetheless permits. Charles bucks erratically, and Erik wraps his hands around the backs of Charles’s thighs, holding himself close until Charles is spent and panting. His throat works as he swallows. A surge of some unnamed emotion hits him from Charles, some inchoate tenderness too intense for Erik to bear, and he jerks his head away, scrubs a shaking hand over his lips and chin. The tile is cold and hard when sits back against it, legs sprawled before him. After a long moment, Charles turns and leans back against the wall as well, starting a slow sink to join Erik on the floor.

“Didn’t ask you to do that. The, uh…” Charles loops an index finger towards his throat, in what Erik supposes is his delicate gesture for swallowing. Even in circumstances like this, he refuses to be vulgar, the darling bastard. Erik would laugh if he didn’t think it might come out as a sob.

“Just felt right, I suppose,” Erik tells him. He’s still so hard it hurts. Charles is warm and solid along his thigh and at his shoulder. He smells spicy, somehow, and clean. Knowing that it will make Charles blush yet again, Erik adjusts himself through his trousers. Sure enough, Charles colors and finds something of utmost interest in the towel hanging next to his head. It’s fascinating how he slips into and out of his role. Some small, secret place in Erik holds on to the knowledge that it’s for him, that Charles does this because of _him_ , but he shakes his head, brushes the thought away like a gnat.

“I could take care of that for you,” Charles says, nodding towards Erik’s lap.

“Could you, then.” They’re conversing like they’re at high tea discussing the finger sandwiches rather than the erection currently tenting the front of Erik’s trousers. Charles looks at him out of the corner of his eye and there’s a distinct wickedness there, one that only becomes clear when he pushes to his feet and smirks down at Erik.

“Maybe later I will,” he says with a grin, one that only widens when he no doubt senses the renewed heat coursing through Erik’s veins at the idea, at all the possibilities. “Car’s here, let’s go.” Then he’s out the door before Erik can even consider stopping him. Erik drops his head back against the wall and groans, the sound echoing off the tiles. He has no idea where they’re going, but he already knows it’s going to be a very long flight.

*****

He finds Charles in the makeshift office that’s been set up for his use. It’s barely more than a broom closet, but Charles has managed to squeeze in a desk, a battered armchair, a vastly overstuffed bookcase brimming with leather-bound volumes, notebooks, and loose papers crammed into any folders he could find. Charles himself is hunched over the desk, pouring over some dry dissertation or another.

“You’ve been holed up in here for hours,” Erik remarks from the door, fascinated by the way Charles springs away from the desk and snaps the booklet closed like a boy who’s been caught out doing something naughty. Intriguing. This bears investigation. “Don’t you want to come outside and play, Charlie?”

“I’ve asked you not to call me that,” Charles says, but Erik hears no irritation in his voice. He rather suspects Charles might even like it, not that he would ever say such a thing. It’s more fun to maintain the pretense that they both believe it annoys him.

“What are you reading, Charles?” He takes a step into the room – he hardly need take more, he’s already a third of the way to the opposite wall – and idly riffles the edge of the booklet Charles has a protective forearm over. It’s not a normal book, merely a collection of pages punched and bound with a metal clip.

“Nothing, just- Just doing some research.”

“On?” Erik presses. “This doesn’t look like one of your normal books.” In an instant, the book has sailed out from under Charles’s arm and into Erik’s waiting hand.

“Erik!”

“Let’s just have a look, shall we?” Erik opens to a random page, leans back against the doorjamb and holds Charles in his chair with a wave of his hand – the day Charles stops wearing cufflinks and belts with metal buckles will be a problem for Erik.

“Erik, give it back and let me go.” Charles has his jaw clenched, his nostrils are flaring more than Erik would have thought possible. He can’t deny that this is an enjoyable change of pace to recent events.

“Learning about some more ‘groovy mutations,’ I would expect,” he says with a grin, but his voice trails off as he reads the page in front of him, a page that happens to be all about the importance of lubrication during anal sex. His eyes snap back up from the page and fix on Charles, who is currently the color of a brick wall. Who is also currently avoiding his gaze.

“Charles,” he says, and falters, because he has no idea what to say. Even his power falters and Charles rises stiffly from his chair, pulls the booklet from Erik’s loose fingers.

“This is not something I have expertise in,” he bites off, clipped and embarrassed, and Erik feels a lurch somewhere near where his heart would be if he had one. He’s so used to dealing with people who do things _to_ him. He has no idea how to deal with someone who does things _for_ him, let alone someone who knows so effortlessly about everything he wants and needs and would do anything to give it to him. Even read musty how-to pamphlets on sex. Erik reaches for the pages, tosses them on the desk. Takes Charles by the wrist and feels the heavy pulse there.

“I think I can help you figure it out,” he says. He can see Charles warring with his embarrassment, his wounded pride. The kiss Erik gives him is too gentle by half. A tiny voice in his head warns him he’s getting in too deep. He ignores it. Later. He’ll worry about that later.

*****

It really is impressive. Erik already knew Charles had grown up with a certain amount of privilege, but he hadn’t guessed at this. Everything is rich, dark wood and tastefully gleaming fixtures. Beautifully ugly carpets layered over shining parquet. Uncomfortable-looking sofas for entertaining in the parlor, comfortable-looking chairs for actually sitting tucked away in back rooms. It’s a bit difficult to imagine Charles growing up here. It’s even harder to imagine how he turned out the way he did. By all rights he should be an insufferable little snob, with little thought or care for others.

“Library is down the hall,” Charles is saying, steaming through the foyer, the children bobbing behind him like ducklings in their mother’s wake. Erik shakes his head as he realizes that would most probably make him the erstwhile father figure. Good grief. They’re all doomed. “Kitchen is downstairs-”

“Downstairs? Like in the basement?” Alex interrupts. “What good is a kitchen in the basement?”

“It’s good for rich people who like to pretend their servants don’t exist,” Raven says, and Charles cuts disapproving eyes at her. She sticks out her tongue in response. Erik has to stifle a laugh, assembling his face into a neutral expression when Charles shifts the disapproval to him.

“I’ve been meaning to have it renovated, make a more central kitchen up here,” he continues, turning to climb the stairs and gesturing for them to follow. “We’ll get around to that sometime. Bedrooms are off these two hallways, please choose whichever you like.”

Anything else he might have said is drowned out by the immediate pandemonium of running and squabbling, the boys scouting for the best rooms. Charles sighs and rolls his eyes towards the ceiling. Clearly he didn’t realize what they were getting themselves into. Erik certainly didn’t. He likes all of them well enough, but he can’t pretend he isn’t already wishing for some peace and solitude. And maybe a stiff drink.

“That one is mine, Cassidy, don’t even think it,” Raven yells with enough force to make Charles wince. Sean holds up his hands innocently, backs away from the door in question.

“Erik,” Charles says and jerks his chin at the flight of stairs leading up. “There’s a room next to mine upstairs, if you want. Give you a little distance.”

“You’re a saint,” Erik says fervently.

“Of course the lovebirds have to be on the same floor,” Raven snorts. Erik stumbles, almost tripping over a step. Apparently they haven’t been as discreet as he’d thought. He glances at Charles only to find Charles already looking at him, and he remembers Charles above him, in him, driving into him and making him crazy. He clears his throat. Raven rolls her eyes. “Gross.”

The third floor seems even more abandoned than the others, the shafts of late-afternoon sunlight at every window thick with motes of dust stirred up by their movements. Charles runs a critical finger along the wainscoting and frowns.

“We’ll get someone in here to clean,” he says absently. He gestures to the far door. “That will be yours, Erik. I’m in here.” His own room holds little interest to Erik at the moment, not when the room Charles grew up in is right there for his investigation. He walks into the room, Raven and Charles trailing behind him. Raven moves through the room with the ease of familiarity, dropping into a club chair and casually slinging her legs over the arm.

“Behold, his natural habitat,” she tells Erik with a wipe sweep of her arm. Erik smiles.

“I feel like an anthropologist,” he says, and she giggles.

“You two should take your routine on the road,” Charles remarks irritably. Raven’s smile fades. Erik knows Charles is still upset with her for the mess they came back to before they left for Russia. It makes little sense to Erik. Of the two of them, Charles was the one who had a relatively normal adolescence. So how is it he can’t seem to remember what teenagers are like?

“We should,” Erik says. “I’ve got a fantastic ventriloquism act. How’s your dancing?” The smile Raven gives him is tinged with gratitude. The poor girl. She wants Charles’s understanding so badly and he seems all too incapable of giving it. In a way, it’s a relief for Erik to know that Charles has his limitations, that he’s not as perfect as he seems. It’s selfish, but it makes Erik feel better about his own flaws to know that Charles has at least one of his own. That’s small consolation to Raven, though.

“Yes, yes, charming,” Charles murmurs, pulling open drawers and rummaging through the contents. Raven heaves a sigh, one loud enough for Charles to hear, though he doesn’t seem to notice. She pushes to her feet and heads towards the door. “Oh, and Raven,” Charles says. She waits expectantly in the doorframe. “Do try to stay in this form until we’re all settled in. We have guests, after all.” Erik could kick him. The stricken look on Raven’s face… well, it could bury a man, Erik thinks.

“I’d like to see the blue girl more often, actually,” he says mildly. Charles pauses in his rummaging, shoots Erik an exasperated look. The smile Raven gives him this time is tremulous. She whirls in the door and a moment later he hears her hurried footsteps on the stairs, retreating to the company of her peers.

“I wish you wouldn’t encourage her,” Charles sighs after she’s gone.

“Encourage her to what?” Erik asks, his voice mild despite the challenge in it. “Be who she is? Want more from the world?”

“We all have times that we want more from the world, that doesn’t mean-”

“Forgive me for saying this, Charles,” Erik interrupts, as he lifts an ornate silver frame from the dresser – holding a photograph of a young Charles on a pony, wearing jodhpurs and looking the very picture of old money – and directs it in lazy circles in the air with one hand, “but that holds little weight coming from you.” He says it as gently as he knows how. It’s not unkind so much as it is truthful, but sometimes they’re the same thing. Charles clenches his jaw and says nothing, staring at the frame turning slowly between them. Just when Erik thinks maybe he should apologize, Charles’s eyes flick up to his.

“Put it down,” he says. His voice is quiet but the steel behind it would bring Erik up short no matter the volume. He knows instantly what it means, what’s coming. It makes him tremble. He plucks the photograph from the air with one hand and sets it carefully on the dresser, not trusting his control of his powers at the moment. He stands with his hands at his sides, waiting for Charles to speak or move. It’s all he can do to hold still with this tense energy coursing through him. But Charles just looks at Erik with an unreadable expression. Erik doesn't know what he’s seeing, but he looks long enough that Erik grows uncomfortable.

“What am I going to do with you, Erik?” Charles asks finally, quietly, almost as if to himself. And then, before Erik could answer even if he did have a response, Charles fills Erik’s mind with precisely what he intends to do with him, and Erik is set to trembling again, so violently that he has to steady himself with one hand on the wall.

“I should be angry at you for that stunt you pulled in Russia,” Charles says, his conversational tone at odds with the images still unspooling in Erik’s mind, made all the more evocative by the unorthodox delivery method.

“I couldn’t just let her go, not when we were so close,” Erik pants, feeling almost apologetic. Not a feeling he’s accustomed to. Charles regards him evenly, then gives the slightest of nods, even though Erik can tell he’s not especially mollified. He remembers the concern in Charles’s eyes when Erik had that telepath by the throat, the alarm in his voice. The fear from his mind that Erik was going down a road where Charles wouldn’t or couldn’t follow.

“Still,” Charles says. “You’re in want of a spanking.” He’s teasing. Erik knows he’s just teasing. But that does nothing to stop the almost incapacitating flood of need that makes his toes curl. Charles’s eyes widen, his mouth makes a round _oh_ of surprise. Erik turns his face away, his cheeks burning.

“That’s, er,” Charles says haltingly. “That’s a bit out of my league, Erik.”

Erik tries to speak but he can’t, he can only shake his head, over and over until he must look like he has some sort of nervous tic. It’s not as if shame is an unfamiliar emotion for him, but it feels fresh and new now, so sickening that he can hardly breathe. He hates himself. He hates everything about himself. There’s too much between him and the door, too many chairs and small tables, and he stumbles, his foot caught on an errant edge of rug.

“Stop,” Charles says, his hand on Erik’s shoulder, steadying him, holding him still. _Stop._ His thought is soft in Erik’s head, infinitely softer than his voice. _Show me,_ Charles says. _Tell me how._

Erik takes a deep, shuddering breath. He barely leans against the hand still on his shoulder, but he knows Charles has to feel the difference, in his mind if not in his body. Charles’s fingers curl tightly, almost causing pain for one brief moment, before they loosen and slide to Erik’s elbow.

“Shut the door,” he says, “and lock it.” Erik’s grateful for his powers. He doesn’t think he could manage to walk to the door without wobbling at the moment. It swings shut, lock turning, and they’re alone in the room, the thick walls and heavy wood paneling making it seem like they’re alone in the house, maybe even alone in the world.

“Show me,” Charles repeats, and Erik relaxes and invites Charles into his mind, letting him skim his thoughts. Charles’s breathing hitches, he closes his eyes, and then Erik’s the one steadying him. A flush creeps up Charles’s neck. When he opens his eyes, his pupils are wide, irises a thin glittering circle around them. Erik could drown in his wanting.

“Hands on the footboard,” Charles says, and he’s slipping into his role again, losing his hesitancy and fumbling. Silently, trembling, Erik turns and leans down, braces his hands on the top rail of the wooden footboard on Charles’s bed. The wood is heavy – dark oak – and he’s glad it isn’t metal. He would probably destroy it.

Charles waits a long time before he even touches him, so long that Erik would worry he’d left the room if he couldn’t hear the soft rasp of his breath, feel his gentle presence lingering in Erik’s mind. The longer he waits, the more desperate Erik feels, until his knees practically knock together from his shaking.

“Would you stop thinking about what it means and just do it,” Erik grits out. The sharp intake of Charles’s breath is follow by a laugh.

“I’m supposed to be in your head, not the other way around,” Charles says. Erik just squeezes his eyes shut, screams with every cell in his body, _please, Charles, please._

The first strike isn’t especially hard, but it’s still almost enough to finish him off. His whole body tightens and it’s everything he can do to keep from coming right then and there. He can feel Charles’s gentle hesitation ghosting around the edges of his mind.

“Harder,” he grunts between gulps of air, and sweet hell, he sounds impossibly pornographic even to his own ears. Charles will blush so deeply he might go up in flames, he imagines. To his surprise, though, Charles doesn’t hesitate this time, giving him a wallop firm enough to pitch him forward. Erik curls his hands around the top of the footboard, struggles to draw breath.

“You’ve a gift for this, Charles,” he pants. He’s rewarded with another smack and he’s almost laughing now, thankful Charles can’t see the manic grin on his face.

“I make an apt pupil with the right teacher,” Charles says, the lightness in his voice a direct contrast to the weight of his hand landing on Erik’s backside again.

“There’s really a lot to be said for this,” Charles continues. “Good for keeping you in line.” He pushes his fingers up under Erik’s shirt, thumbs the divots at the base of his spine. Erik lets out a long, low moan, one that slides up half an octave at Charles’s next blow. Charles steps against his side, hard against Erik’s hip even through the several layers of clothing between them. The knowledge that it’s affecting him as much as it is Erik is potent.

"Are you going to be a good boy for me?" Charles asks, his hand sliding over Erik’s hip in a caress before it connects solidly again, the crack of it loud in Erik’s ears. Sensation shoots through him and he can barely breathe.

"Charles, I- Whatever you want, I'll do anything you want, please, just-" Erik's words dissolve into a tangle of sounds. The footboard creaks under his hands, his nails probably leaving crescent scars on the wood; he’s clutching at it like it’s a life preserver in the middle of the ocean, as if he’ll die if he loosens his grip. Charles loses his playfulness, his next two blows becoming softer and more erratic. Erik can feel Charles in his mind, his desire bouncing against Erik’s own until his head turns into an echo chamber. Everything is more intense, a pain that becomes pleasure, a pleasure so great it’s indistinguishable from pain.

"Be good for me," Charles repeats roughly, a pleading, almost desperate edge to his voice. Erik shakes away the pang he feels at the words; the odds of him ever being good for Charles seem lower every day. But there’s no room for guilt now, not with Charles rocking his pelvis against Erik’s hip in jerky thrusts. He leans forward, presses his lips against Erik’s ribs. "Good, Erik," Charles moans into his ear. "Be good for me." He snakes his hand around Erik’s waist, rubs desperately over the swell of Erik’s cock through his trousers.

That's all it takes. Erik lets out a strangled moan as his hips jerk and he comes. Maybe it’s his pleasure arcing back on Charles like a boomerang, but it’s enough for Charles as well, and he stiffens and jerks in tandem with the tremors of Erik’s body, stretched out over him so that he’s practically lying on Erik’s back. They stay that way for a long time, until Erik’s arms quiver from the strain of holding them both up. Charles's shudders slowly dissipate, his hand clenches into a fist under Erik’s shirt. The air cools the sweat on their skin until Erik feels cold and clammy, but still he doesn't move. Finally, his arms on the brink of giving out, he drops to his knees at the foot of the bed, gently sinking to the floor without dislodging Charles until they’re sprawled on the carpet, lungs still drawing shaky breaths in synchronization.

Erik always has trouble falling asleep, often lying in bed for over an hour, waiting for sleep to overtake him. Which is why it surprises him so to open his eyes now and realize he’d slipped into sleep at some point, long enough that dusk is now at the windows and crickets chirp outside. Charles still has his hand under Erik’s shirt. He’s tracing gentle fingers over Erik’s back, reading the bumps and scars like Braille. He touches every inch of skin, maps each mark, each mole, every spur of bone and swell of muscle. Erik lies quiescent, allowing the silent exploration. When Charles hits a particular scar, Erik tenses, unable to keep himself from remembering precisely how he got it, knowing that Charles is experiencing every bit of it by proxy now.

Erik rolls over, crowding against Charles’s body. Everything is shadowed in the half-dark of the room; Erik can barely see him. He might be able to switch on the lights with his powers, but he doesn’t want to. His fingertip shakes a little as he traces it over Charles’s brow, down the untidy line of his nose.

“I imagine the bed would be more comfortable,” he says. Even though he’s almost whispering, his voice seems too loud.

“It’s been a while since I slept in it,” Charles allows, “but yes, I imagine so.” He stands, extending a hand to Erik to help him up. Then his lips quirk. “Of course, you won’t be doing any sleeping for a few more hours yet.” Erik smiles, despite the fist clenching in his gut when Charles gives him a graphic idea of just what it is he’ll be doing.

“Whatever you say, boss.”

*****

Some small sound wakes him, some creak or sigh. The noise of an unfamiliar house settling. He pushes himself up on his elbows to orient himself, not sure for a moment where he is. Charles’s bedroom. The mansion in New York. The glow of a cigarette at the window lets him know Charles is no longer in bed beside him.

“Charles?”

Charles exhales, the plume of smoke hazy against the night sky outside the window. He stares out the window, says nothing. Erik can’t be entirely sure he isn’t dreaming.

“I thought you didn’t smoke,” he says dumbly. Another inhalation, the tip of the cigarette flaring bright, wisps of smoke curling from Charles’s nostrils before he sends another plume of smoke streaming away.

“I don’t,” he says. Erik has no idea what to say. He’s on the verge of just going back to sleep when Charles shakes his head, turns to look at Erik.

“It really kills me sometimes, you know. Knowing what you think you do and do not deserve.” A leaden weight settles in Erik’s chest.

“Charles-”

“It’s all right, Erik, go back to sleep,” Charles says, stubbing his cigarette out on the window sill. “Forget I said it.” Erik could sooner forget his own name. He expects Charles to come back to bed, but he stays at the window, looking out onto something Erik can’t see. He’s still there when Erik turns over and forces himself to close his eyes.

*****

Charles has been spending more and more of his spare time in the library doing research. It worries Erik. There are bags under Charles’s eyes. Some nights he doesn’t come to bed until well after midnight. Given how little they sleep at night, it’s no wonder Charles is always so tired, yet still he spends his time in that library, pouring over books and papers, doing everything he can to prepare them all for whatever comes

That’s where Erik finds him one afternoon, fast asleep in a wingchair near the fireplace, an open book on his lap and scattered papers mounding over his feet on the floor. Erik looks at him from the doorway for a moment. He wants to scoop Charles up, cradle him against his chest and protect him from everything as Charles is trying to protect the rest of them. He wants to run away and find someplace where he won’t forever be forced to confront such feelings for another. The inside of his head is a conflicted place of late. People always talk about being crazy about someone like it's a sweet harmless thing. Like it isn't actually being almost insane over a person. Erik had never wanted affection before, but now that he’s had it, it’s as if he could never be sated, not in a million years.

Quietly, he kneels, gathering the papers that have fallen at Charles’s feet. They’re covered with dense print, squiggles of diagrams and formulas that Erik could never hope to understand. He stacks them together, rapping the bottom edge against his thigh to tidy them before placing them on the table at Charles’s elbow.

Charles looks younger when he’s asleep, the lines of stress that he carries during the day relaxed into smoothness. Erik can’t look at him without feeling too much, without all the contradictions between them swirling up under his skin like they might rip him apart from the inside. He tells himself not to, he calls himself a hundred kinds of fool, but he can’t stop himself from lowering his head, pressing his cheek to the smooth fabric covering Charles’s thigh. He wants to curl up in Charles’s lap. But he only allows himself to catch the hem of Charles’s sleeve between his thumb and forefinger, the broadcloth cool and starched under his fingertips when he slides them against each other.

At first he doesn’t notice the hand ghosting over his hair with the barest pressure. When it registers, he freezes, and he feels Charles’s thigh tense under his cheek in response. Erik pushes abruptly to his feet, clears his throat once, then again. He can’t meet Charles’s eyes.

“Moira wanted to speak with you,” he manages before he bolts from the room so quickly he’s sure he looks like a fool. He’s afraid Charles will call to him, try to stop him. He’s afraid Charles won’t. How is it that this one man can make him so soft when everything else in his life has only made him harder?

Hank is scurrying about upstairs when Erik gets up there, having taken the steps two at a time. He reminds Erik of a whippet, rangy and filled with nervous energy.

“Have you seen Raven?” Hank asks as Erik walks past, intending to continue up to his room without conversation.

“Not lately.”

“Well if you see her, tell her I need to talk to her, it’s very important.” That slows Erik up. He pauses with his foot hovering over the bottom step and looks at Hank over his shoulder.

“What’s got you all fired up, puppy?”

Hank’s nostrils flare. He pulls himself up to his full height and glares at Erik with the righteous indignation of youth. “Serum,” he bites off. “To normalize appearance without affecting abilities.” Erik can’t stop the spark of irritation he feels at the idea. He lowers his foot, turns from the stairs to face Hank fully.

“Oh? And what does that mean when her appearance _is_ her ability?”

“I know you’re not asking because you’re curious,” Hank snaps. “Easy for you to say when no one would ever treat you like an animal.” Anger bubbles up in Erik, hot and familiar, almost like an old friend. He feels his powers coiling in his muscles. Charles would say he should control himself. Too bad he’s not in the mood. In a flash, Hank is up against the wall, pinned at the sleeves and waist, his glasses pressing hard enough against his face to leave marks on the skin.

“Let me tell you something,” Erik snarls with cold menace. “You know nothing of what it is to be persecuted.” Hank only stares at him, stunned, eyes like saucers. “And you should pray to your god that you never will, even after you use that precious serum of yours.” He releases Hank, but Hank doesn’t move. He’s still standing there, until Erik mounts the stairs and Hank drops out of sight.

*****

“It shall be the policy of this nation to regard any nuclear missile crossing the embargo line that surrounds Cuba as an attack by the Soviet Union on the United States requiring a full retaliatory response.” So few words, but such an impact. One sentence and all their lives are changed.

“So much for diplomacy,” Erik says. He knows it’s petty to look at Charles then – Charles seems to think it is too, as he gives Erik one of those reproving looks of his – but Erik’s been saying it for ages now, that nothing will stop men who want to destroy each other. It’s a small comfort to be proven right, but he’ll take what he can get.

Moira gives him the same reproving look as Charles. Erik is far less willing to take such things from her. He sees how she looks at Charles. And no matter what, she’s still not one of them.

She’s deep in discussion with Charles when Erik finds them in the library later. There they are, planning and plotting, Charles acting like she’s a partner in all this. He takes her elbow, gives it a reassuring squeeze. The depth of the rage Erik feels would shock him if he were inclined to reflection at the moment.

“Charles,” he says, his voice much calmer than the rest of him. Moira takes one look at his face and is out the door like a shot.

“Erik,” Charles replies, his brow creased in confusion at Moira’s hasty exit. Then he gives a heavy sigh, one that sounds as if the weight of the world is on his shoulders. “We’ve got quite a lot ahead of us tomorrow.”

“You’ve been making plans with Moira, I see.”

“Yes,” Charles says absently. “We’ll need her help tomorrow. With her CIA connections and her experience, she’ll be invaluable. She’s really quite a remarkable person, Erik, you should talk to her sometime.” Erik makes a snorting sound and Charles frowns.

“Are you going to marry her and have fat babies, then?” Erik says. He hears the petty jealousy in his voice and he hates it but he can’t seem to stop. Charles throws up his hands in exasperation.

“Yes, and we’ll name them Imogen and Aloysius. Erik, what’s gotten into you?” Before Erik can come up with anything good to say – anything that will salvage his dignity – a surprised look comes across Charles’s face. His mouth forms an _oh_ , and then that soft look is back, that expansive, unbearable compassion that Charles never seems to run out of. Something about it infuriates Erik.

“Don’t give me that look,” he snaps. “I chase your girlfriend out of here and you give me that look?” Charles doesn’t rise to the bait of the word “girlfriend.” He never seems to rise to any bait at all and right now it is maddening. The last thing they’ll all need tomorrow is compassion. Something wells up in Erik, an angry impatience bubbling up from his gut with nowhere to go.

“Erik,” Charles says, in that gentle voice of his, and it’s enough to make Erik snap.

“For God’s sake, get angry at me!” Erik explodes. Suddenly he grabs at Charles, pulling up his hands and attempting to ball them into fists. Charles struggles but only to resist. They grapple for control, Erik pulling at him and Charles pulling away. Always the fucking pacifist. “Get angry, I deserve it! Hell, Charles, I’ve earned it.”

“And what will that prove?” Charles demands

“It will prove that you’re-” Erik stops short and Charles gives a wry bark of laughter.

“Human?” he supplies. He’s looking at every inch of Erik’s face, his eyes darting all over as if he wants to see every bit of him at once, as if he wants to memorize him. He’s not pulling away anymore; now he’s straining towards Erik, leaning into the pressure that’s suddenly reversed itself as Erik holds him away. The fight is draining out of Erik, leaving a vulnerable emptiness behind it. He is so tired of being filled with anger. If only he knew who he was without it.

“Do you pet the dogs that bite you as well?” Erik asks in resignation, marveling at Charles’s seemingly limitless well of kindness towards the world, even as he instinctively rejects such notions himself.

“Only if they let me.” There’s such a simple, enormous truth in the statement – it so encapsulates their differences – that Erik has to close his eyes against it, an uncomfortable tightness in his chest. He doesn’t have the strength to hold Charles away any longer.

Charles sinks onto him with a sigh, a sigh that sounds like this is what he’s been waiting for. His hands fall to Erik’s waist, his forehead dropping onto Erik’s collarbone hard enough to hurt a little. As if they don’t belong to him, Erik’s hands curl around Charles’s neck. He dips his thumbs into the wells of Charles’s ears until he shivers and burrows closer.

“What am I going to do with you, Charles?” Erik breathes. Charles laughs in recognition.

“I have some suggestions,” he says. “Remind me to tell you later. For now, perhaps a round of chess will suffice.” He lifts his head, tilting it back to look Erik in the eye. So many emotions play on his face – sadness, hope, resignation, an infinite and impossible affection – that for a moment, Erik feels like the telepath, reading everything in Charles’s head in an instant. He nods and they break apart, Erik’s hand lingering without his permission at the small of Charles’s back.

The chess board is set up and waiting. Erik’s lost count of how many games they’ve played, how many times they’ve found themselves here, facing each other across the board as friends and adversaries. Who knows what will change tomorrow. Lately he’s constantly felt like he’s holding his breath, steeling himself for something important. It’s as if the lives they know are ending today and new ones will start tomorrow; it feels not unlike the last chess game they’ll ever play. He moves his bishop. He’ll have Charles in check in two more moves if everything goes his way. He looks up at Charles, at his sweet, familiar face.

“Your move, Charlie,” he says.


End file.
